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CONDENSED FOR READIMCi 
ONE 1-2 HOURS 



pmoE, m»©& MET 





THE 

SPANISH GIPSY 

By GEORGE ELIOT 



Condensed and arrangfed for reading; 

Wtth special adaptability for a woman 

With directions for interpretation 

BY 

LILY HOFOTJER WOOD MORSE 



Time for Presentation: J^ Hours 



^!^ 




PRICE, ONE DOLLAR 



NEW YORK 
EDGAR S* WERNER AND COMPANY 

Copyright, 1906, by Edgar S. Werner 



tt 









'•^^ 0^ 



CONTENTS. 



I PAGE 

Books of Ij in Connection with the Play . . 4 

Characters che Play 2 

Critical Resume of the Play 67 

Juan's Songs 13, 17 

Pronunciation of the Names of the Characters . . 3 

Scene I., Text of 9 

Scene II., Text of 10 

Scene III., Text of 14 

Scene IV., Text of 19 

Scene V., Text of 40 

Scene VI., Text of 41 

Scene VII., Text of 42 

Scene VIII., Text of 56 

Scene IX., Text of 60 

Scenes of the Play Tabulated 1 

Suggestions for Characterization 5 

Suggestions for Note to be Printed on Program . 7 

iii 



**TLbc Spanish ©ips^" 

Htran^eb tor IReaMno 



SCENES. 

PART I. 

PAGE 

Scene I. — Bedmd,r in Spain 9 

Scene II. — A Tavern Court of Moorish Archi- 
tecture 10 

Scene III. — ^The Plaga Santiago 14 

Scene IV. — A Room in the Castle 19 

PART II. 

Scene V. — A Rocky Pass Leading to Bedmd-r 40 

Scene VI.— The Castle 41 

Scene VII.— The Gipsy Camp 42 

Scene VIIL— The Plaga Santiago 56 

Scene IX.— The Bay of Ahneria 60 

1 



CHAEACTERS. 

Don Silva Duke of Bedm^r 

Zarca Gipsy Chief 

Juan A Troubadour 

Lorenzo Host of the Tavern 

Lopez A Soldier 

RoLDAN A Juggler 

Fedalma Betrothed to Silva 

HiNDA A Gipsy Maiden 

2 



PRONUNCIATION. 



Diacritical marks according to Funk & Wagnalls' Standard 
Dictionary. 

(Oblique line indicates accented syllable.) 

Abderahman Tsmael 

Alcala Juan (whan) 

Almeria (accent falls on i) Lop^z (pez=p^th) 
Aragon Lorenzo 

Bedmdr (accent second Naddr 



syllable) 
6oabdil 
Castilian 
6ordova 
Don Alvir 
Don ^ilva 

t\ zagal 

Fedalma 

6uadix (6wade5se) 
Hesperus 
Hinda (ee) 
Inez (een-yaith) 



P^pfta 
Pfaga (c soft as in cease) 
Roldan 
Santiago 
SeviUe 
Toledo 

Zarca (c like k) 
Zincala (feminine singu- 
^ lar) 

Zincali (plural) 
^incalo (masculine singu- 
lar) 



BOOKS OF INTEEEST 

IN CONNECTION WITH 

"THE SPANISH GIPSY." 

Prescott's "Ferdinand and Isabella." 2 vols. 
$1.50. 

Washington Irving's "Conquest of Granada." $1. 
Borrows 's "Gypsies of Spain." $2. 

4 



SUGGESTIONS FOR CHARACTERL 
ZATION. 

Don Silva. — Heroic, thoroughly manly, romantic, 
impulsive. Firm, rich quality of voice, — ^with 
goftened love tones in scenes with Fedalma, and 
great dynamic force, abrupt utterance, in the 
last scenes with Zarca. Strong physical poise. 

Zarca. — Pre-eminently strong, — ^with the intensely 
passionate utterance of the Gipsy tribe. Hard 
quality of voice, except in expressions of fatherly 
affection towards Fedalma. Uncompromising 
and inflexible in voice and manner. Rigid ex- 
pressions of face. 

Juan. — ^The poet in temperament, the singer; grace- 
ful and lithe in bearing, musical of voice, with 
delicate sensibilities and mobile facial expression. 

Lorenzo. — Bluff, hale, and hearty. Robust in bear- 
ing, with jovial speech and laugh. 

Lopez. — ^The soldier in bearing; business-like and 
curt of speech, giving his thoughts in the most 
direct manner possible, seeming to ''strike out 
from the shoulder" with his ideas. 

RoLDAN. — Reserved in manner, with the deep con- 
centration needed in his art. No longer young, — 
his whole concern being to gather audience for 
his tricks, and reap the coins. 

Fedalma. — Her own lines best furnish the clue to 
the delineation of her varying moods. Voice, 

5 



6 SUGGESTIONS FOR CHARACTERIZATION. 

face, and manner must be capable of every 
gradation of emotional expression. In protray- 
ing this, the principal character of the drama, as 
much expression must be evidenced "between 
the lines'' as in the actual lines themselves. 
The spoken thought must be preceded by an 
external display of the silent thought. There is 
almost a childishness of manner in the abandon 
and simplicity of the earlier scenes, with now 
and again a fine thread of premonition running 
through her joy, but vanishing almost instantly. 
In the scene with Zarca, this tragic element 
gradually becomes stronger, until it crowds out 
the joyousness in the final renunciation. In the 
latter scenes, her strict adherence to her integrity 
of purpose, when once her path lies clear before 
her, gives her more poise than Silva, and she 
becomes the stronger influence in the end. 
HiNDA. — ^The ingenue type, with great spontaneity 
and abandon, with a genuineness and frank 
childishness that is refreshing. Voice lacks 
signs of mature thought or experience. Both 
her grief and her joy are simple and direct. Her 
physical action is free and spontaneous, — a true 
child of Nature, unrestrained. 



SUGGESTIONS FOR PROGRAM. 

"The fifteenth century is faUing, as a husk, 
Away from all the fruit its years have riped." 
— ^^The Spanish Gipsy. '^ 

"It is the hour of the last struggle of the Moors 
against the power of the Catholic kings." 

George Eliot, in her "Spanish Gipsy," pictures 
with wonderful fidelity the prevailing valor and ex- 
citement of the times. The story is a struggle in 
mind and body between the power of love, on the 
one hand, and loyalty to hereditary faith, on the 
other. The main action takes place in Bedmar, a 
small town on the southern coast of Spain, near 
Gibraltar, "the great rock that screens the westering 
sun." Ferdinand and Isabella, who are on the 
throne, have intrusted this Christian stronghold to 
Duke Silva. The Moorish camp is but a mile away, 
and constant vigilance is required to protect Bedmar. 
Any neglect of duty may prove fatal. In direct 
contrast to this warlike aspect is the love-theme of 
the drama, and the constant struggle between love 
and duty fornxs the groundwork of the story. As a 
piece of literature, it is notable for the charm of its 
word-pictures, the beauty of its thoughts, and the 
dignity of its sentiment. Both the dialogue and 
the descriptive passages are intensely dramatic; and 
the present arrangement follows, as closely as possi- 
ble, the typical form of the drama. " The Spanish 
Gipsy" was written in the winter of 1864-65. After 
the author's visit to Spain in 1867 it was rewritten 
and amplified 

7 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

SCENE I. 

Bedmar, in Spain. 

Tis the warm South, where Europe spreads her lands 
Like fretted leaflets, breathing on the deep: 
Broad-breasted Spain, leaning with equal love 
On the Mid Sea that moans with memories, 
And on the untraveled Ocean's restless tides. 
This town, that dips its feet within the stream, 
Is rich Bedmar. Twas Moorish long ago. 
But now the Cross is sparkling on the Mosque, 
And bells make Catholic the trembling air. 
The fortress gleams in Spanish sunshine now 
('Tis south a mile before the rays are Moorish) — 

Hereditary jewel, 
Of young Duke Silva. No Castilian knight 
That serves Queen Isabel has higher charge; 
For near this frontier sits the Moorish king, 
Not Boabdil the waverer, who usurps 
A throne he trembles in, and fawning licks 
The feet of conquerors, but that fierce lion 
Grisly El Zagal, who has made his lair 
In Guadix' fort, and rushing thence with strength, 
Wastes the fair lands that lie by Alcala, 
Wreathing his horse's neck with Christian heads. 

9 



10 THE SPANISH* GIPSY. 

To keep the Christian frontier — such high trust 
Is young Duke Silva's; and the time is great. 
(Wliat times are httle? To the sentinel 
That hour is regal when he mounts on guard.) 
The time is great, and greater no man's trust 
Than his who keeps the fortress for his king, 

Its sworn governor, 
Lord of the valley, master of the town. 
Commanding whom he will, himself commanded 
By Christ his Lord who sees him from the Cross. 

SCENE II. 

A Tavern Court of Moorish architecture. In a 
group, talking with Lorenzo, the Host of the 
Tavern, are Juan, the troubadour, and Roldan, the 
juggler. Enter Lopez, a soldier. 

Juan. 
Ha, Lopez? What news of the wars? 

Lopez. 
Such news as is most bitter on my tongue. 

We make no sally; 
We sit still here and wait whatever the Moor 
Shall please to do. 

Host. 
Some townsmen will be glad. 

Lopez. 
Glad, will they be? But I'm not glad, not I, 
Nor any Spanish soldier of clean blood. 
But the Duke's wisdom is to wait a siege 
Instead of laying one. Therefore — meantime — 
He will be married straightway. 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. U 

Host. 

Ha, ha, ha ! 
Thy speech is hke an hour-glass; turn it down 
The other way, 'twill stand as well, and say 
The Duke will wed, therefore he waits a siege. 

Who is the bride? 

Lopez. 

One that some say the Duke does ill to wed. 

One that his mother reared — God rest her soul! — 

A bird picked up away from any nest. 

Her name — the Duchess gave it — is Fedahna. 

No harm in that. But the Duke stoops, they say, 

In wedding her. And that's the simple truth. 

Juan. 

Fie, Lopez, thou a Spaniard with a sword 
Dreamest a Spanish noble ever stoops 
By doing honor to the maid he loves ! 
He stoops alone when he dishonors her. 

Lopez. 

Nay, I said nought against her. 

Juan. 

Better not, 
Else I would challenge thee to fight with wits. 
Don Silva's heart beats to a loyal tune: 
He wills no highest-bom Castilian dame, 
Betrothed to highest noble, should be held 
More sacred than Fedalma. He does well. 
Nought can come closer to the poet's strain. 
There's a poor poet (poor, I mean, in coin) 
Worships Fedalma with so true a love 



12 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

That if her silken robe were chr.nged for rags, 
And she were driven out to stony wilds 
Barefoot, a scorned wanderer, he would kiss 
Her ragged garment's edge, and only ask 
For leave to be her slave. Digest that, friend, 
Or let it lie upon thee as a weight 
To check light thinking of Fedalma. 

Lopez. 

I? 
I think no harm of her; I thank the saints 
I wear a sword and peddle not in thinking. 
Tis Father Marcos says she'll not confess 
And loves not holy water; says her blood 
Is infidel; says the Duke's wedding her 
Is union of light with darkness. 

Juan. 

Tush! 
fNow Juan — who by snatches touched his lute 
With soft arpeggio, like a whispered dream 
Of sleeping music, while he spoke of love — 
In jesting anger at the soldier's talk 
Thrummed loud and fast, then faster and more loud, 
Till, as he answered "Tush!" he struck a chord 
Sudden as whip-crack close by Lopez' ear.] 

Lopez. 

If that's a hint 
The company should ask thee for a song, 
Sing, then! 

Host, 

Ay, Juan, sing, and jar no more. 
Something brand new. 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 13 

Juan (sings). 
Maiden, crowned with glossy hlackness. 

Lithe as panther forest-roaming, 

Long-armed naiad, when she dances, 

On a stream of ether floating — 

Bright, bright Fedalma! 

Pure as rain-tear on a rose-leaf. 

Cloud high-horn in noonday spotless, 

Sudden perfect as the dew-bead. 
Gem of earth and sky begotten — 

Bright, bright Fedalma! 

Host. 
Faith, a good song, sung to a stirring tune. 
Another such ! 

ROLDAN. 

Sirs, you will hear my boy. 'Tis very hard 
When gentles sing for nought to all the town. 
How can a poor man live? And now 'tis time 
I go to the Plaga — who will give me pence 
When he can hear hidalgos and give nought? 

Juan. 

True, friend. Be pacified. I'll sing no more. 
Go thou, and we will follow. Never fear. 
My voice is common as the ivy-leaves. 
Plucked in all seasons — bears no price; thy boy's 
Is like the almond blossoms. 

Host. 

Go with them to the Plaga, 

The sights will pay thee. 

But let us see as well as hear. Some tricks, a dance. 



14 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 



ROLDAN. 



You shall see all, sirs. There's no man in Spain 
Knows his art better. [Exit Roldan.] 

Host. 

I'll get this juggler, if he quits him well, 
An audience here as choice as can be lured. 
Shall we go? All of us now together? 

Lopez. 

Well, not I. 
I may be there anon, but first I go 
To the lower prison. There is strict command 
That all our Gipsy prisoners shall to-night 
Be lodged within the fort. They've forged enough 
Of balls and bullets — used up all the metal. 
At morn to-morrow they must carry stones 
Up the south tower. 'Tis a fine stalwart band, 
Fit for the hardest tasks. 'Twill soon be time 
To head the escort. We shall meet again. 

Host. 

Go, sir, with God. [Exit Lopez.] 

A very proper man, and soldierly. 

But come now, let us see the juggler's skill. 



SCENE III. 

The Pla^a Santiago. 

Tis daylight still, but now from turrets high 
The flitting splendor sinks with folded wing. 
For the great rock has screened the westering sun 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 15 

And within Bedmar has come the time of sweet seren- 
'Tis day, but day that falls like melody [ity. 

Repeated on a string with graver tones — 
Tones such as linger in a long farewell. 

The Plaga widens in the passive air — [spreads 

The Plaga Santiago, where from o'er the roofs there 
The breath of flowers and aromatic leaves 
Soothing the sense with bliss indefinite. — 

And so it soothes, 
So gently sways the pulses of the crowd 
Who make a zone about the central spot 
Chosen by Roldan for his theatre. 
And now the gilded balls begin to play 
In rhythmic numbers, ruled by practice fine 
Of eye and muscle: 'tis not the old Roldan now, 
The dull, hard, weary, miserable man, 
Tis Roldan glorious, holding all eyes like any meteor, 

King of the moment. 
Pablo stands passive, and a space apart, 
Holding a viol, waiting for command. 
Music must not be wasted, but must rise 
As needed climax; and the audience 
Is growing with late comers. 

Now Roldan spreads his carpet. He tumbles next, 
But with the tumbling, lest the feats should fail. 
And so need veiling in a haze of sound, 
Pablo awakes the viol and the bow — 
The masculine bow that draws the woman's heart 
From out the strings, and makes them cry, yearn, 
Tremble, exult, with mystic union (plead, 

Of joy acute and tender suffering. 
The long notes linger on the trembling air, 
With subtle penetration enter aU 



16 THE SPANISH* GIPSY. 

The myriad corridors of the passionate soul, 

Message-like spread, and answering action rouse. 

Vibrations sympathetic stir all limbs. 

"The dance! the dance!" is shouted all around. 

Pepita now puts forth her foot 

And lifts her arm to wake the castanets. 

Roldan, weary, gathers pence. 

The carpet lies a colored isle untrod, 

Inviting feet: ''The dance! the dance!" resounds, 

The bow entreats with slow melodic strain, 

And all the air with expectation yearns. 

Sudden, with gliding motion like a flame, 
A figure lithe, all white and saffron-robed. 
Flashed right across the circle, and now stood 
With ripened arms uplift and regal head. 
Juan stood fixed and pale; Pepita stepped 
Backward within the ring: the voices fell 
From shouts insistent to more passive tones 
Half meaning welcome, half astonishment. 
"Lady Fedalma! — will she dance for us?" 
But she, sole swayed by impulse passionate, 
Feeling all life was music and all eyes 
The warming quickening light that music makes. 
Moved as, in dance religious, Miriam, 
When on the Red Sea shore she raised her voice 
And led the chorus of the people's joy; 
Moved in slow curves voluminous, gradual. 
Feeling and action flowing into one. 
With young delight that wonders at itself 
And throbs as innocent as opening flowers, 
Knowing not comment — soilless, beautiful. 
And still the light is changing. 
CJomes a more solemn brilliance o'er the sky, 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. If 

A meaning more intense upon the air — 
The inspiration of the dying day. 
And Juan now, when Pablo's notes subside, 
Soothes the regretful ear, and breaks the pause 
With masculine voice in deep antiphony. 

Juan [sings]. 

Day is dying! Float, song, 

Down the westward river, 
Requiem chanting to the Day — 

Day, the mighty Giver. 

Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds, 

Melted rubies sending 
Through the river and the sky. 

Earth and heaven blending; 

All the long-drawn earthy banks 

Up to cloud-land lifting: 
Slow between them drifts the swan, 

'Twixt two heavens drifting. 

Day is dying! Float, swan 

Down the ruby river; 
Follow, song, in requiem 

To the mighty Giver. 

The exquisite hour, the ardor of the crowd, 

The strains more plenteous, and the gathering night 

Of action passionate where no effort is, 

All gathering influences culminate 

And urge Fedalma. Swifter now she moves, 

Filling the measure with a double beat 

And widening circle; now she seems to glow 

With more declared presence, glorified. 



18 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

Circling, she lightly bends and lifts on high 

The multitudinous-sounding tambourine, 

And makes it ring and boom, then lifts it higher, 

Stretching her left arm beauteous; now the crowd 

Exultant shouts, forgetting poverty 

In the rich moment of possessing her. 

But sudden, at one point, the exultant throng 
Is pushed and hustled, and then thrust apart: 
Something approaches — something cuts the ring 
Of jubilant idlers. Tis the band 
Of Gipsy prisoners, aloof surveyed 
By gallant Lopez, stringent in command, 
The Gipsies chained in couples, all save one. 
Fedalma now, with gentle wheeling sweep 
Faces again the centre, swings again 
The uplifted tambourine. . . . 

When lo ! with sound 
Stupendous throbbing, solemn as a voice 
Sent by the invisible choir of all the dead. 
Tolls the great passing bell that calls to prayer 
For souls departed : at the mighty beat 
It seems the light sinks awe-struck — 'tis the note 
Of the sun's burial; speech and action pause; 
Religious silence and the holy sign 
Of everlasting memories 
Pass o'er the Plaga. Little children gaze 
With lips apart, and feel the unknown god; 
And the most men and women pray. Not all. 
The soldiers pray; the Gipsies stand unmoved 
As pagan statues with proud level gaze. 
But he who wears a solitary chain 
Heading the file, has turned to face Fedalma. 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 19 

She, motionlesS; stands 
With level glance meeting that Gipsy's eyes, 
That seem to her the sadness of the world 

Rebuking her. 
Why does he look at her? why she at him? 
As if the meeting light between their eyes 
Made permanent union? His deep-knit brow, 
Inflated nostril, scornful lip compressed. 
Seem a dark hieroglyph of coming fate 
Written before her. She stood all quelled. 
The impetuous joy that hurried in her veins 
Seemed backward rushing turned to chillest awe. 

Now it was gone; the pious murmur ceased. 
The Gipsies all moved onward at command 
And careless noises blent confusedly. 
But the ring closed again, and many ears 
Waited for Pablo's music, many eyes 
Turned toward the carpet: it lay bare and dim, 
Twilight was there — the bright Fedalma gone. 



SCENE IV. 

A handsome room in the Castle. On the table 
a rich jewel-casket. 

Silva had doffed his mail and with it all 
The heavier harness of his warlike cares. 
He had not seen Fedalma; miser-like 
He hoarded through the hour a costlier joy 
By longing oft-repressed. Now it was earned; 
And with observance wonted he would send 
To ask admission. 



20 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

[Enter Fedalma, starting hack in surprise.] 
Fedalma. 

O my lord ! 
You are come back, and I was wandering ! 
Are you angry? [Anxiously.] 

Don Silva. 

Angry? 
A man deep-wounded may feel too much pain 
To feel much anger. 

Fedalma. 

You — deep-wounded? Nay, Silva, nay. 
Has soms one told you false? I only went 
To see the world with Inez — see the town, 
The people, everything. It was no harm. 
I did not mean to dance : it happened. — 

Don Silva. 

O God, it's true then ! — true that you, 
A maiden nurtured as rare flowers are, 
The very air of heaven sifted fine, 
Lest any mote should mar your purity, 
Have flung yourself out on the dusty way 
For common eyes to see your beauty soiled ! 
You own it true — you danced upon the Plaga? 

Fedalma [proudly]. 

Yes, it was true. I was not wrong to dance. 
The air was filled with music, with a song 
That seemed the voice of the sweet eventide — 
The glowing light entering through eye and ear — 
That seemed our love— mine, yours— they are but 

[one — 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 21 

Trembling through all my limbs, as fervent words 
Tremble within my soul and must be spoken. 
And all the people felt a common joy 
And shouted for the dance. The joy, the life 
Around, within me, were one heaven: I longed 
To blend them visibly : I longed to dance 
Before the people — ^be as mounting flame 
To all that burned within them ! Nay, I danced; 
There was no longing : I but did the deed 
Being moved to do it. O ! I seemed new-waked 
To life in unison with a multitude — 
Feeling my soul upborne by all their souls, 
Floating within their gladness ! Soon I lost 
All sense of separateness : Fedalma died 
As a star dies and melts into the light. 
I was not, but joy was, and love and triumph. 
Nay, my dear lord, I never could do aught 
But I must feel you present. And once done, 
Why, you must love it better than your wish. 
I pray you, say so — say, it was not wrong! 

Don Silva. 

Dangerous rebel ! if the world without 

Were pure as that within . . . but 'tis a book 

Wherein you only read the poesy 

And miss all wicked meanings. 

You bewilder me ! — you shrink no more 

From gazing men than from the gazing flowers 

That, dreaming sunshine, open as you pass. 

Fedalma. 
No, I should like the world to look at me 
With eyes of love that make a second day. 
I think your eyes would keep the life in me 



22 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

Though I had nought to feed on else. Their blue 
Is better than the heavens — holds more love 
For me, Fedalma — is a little heaven 
For this one little world that looks up now. 

Don Silva. 

O precious little world ! you make the heaven 
As the earth makes the sky. But, dear, all eyes, 
Though looking even on you, have not a glance 
That cherishes . . . 

Fedalma. 

Ah, no, I meant to tell you — 
Tell how my dancing ended with a pang. 
There came a man, one among many more, 
But he came first, with iron on his limbs. 
And when the bell tolled, and the people prayed, 
And I stood pausing — then he looked at me. 
The gladness hurrying full within my veins 
Was sudden frozen, and I danced no more. 
But seeing you let loose the stream of joy, 
Yet, Silva, still I see him. Who is he ? 
Who are those prisoners with him ? Are they Moors ? 

Don Silva. 

No, they are Gipsies, strong and cunning knaves, 

A double gain to us by the Moors' loss: 

The man you mean — their chief — is an ally 

The infidel will miss. Such vague fear 

Was natural, was not worth emphasis. 

Forget it, dear. This hour is worth whole days ' 

When we are sundered. Danger urges us 

To quick resolve. 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 23 

Fedalma. 

What danger ? what resolve ? 
I never felt chill shadow in my heart 
Until this sunset. 

Don Silva. 

A dark enmity 
Plots how to sever us. And our defence 
Is speedy marriage, secretly achieved, 
Then publicly declared. Ere a second sun from this 
Has risen — ^you consenting — we may wed. 

Fedalma. 
None knowing that we wed ? 

Don Silva. 

Beforehand none 
Save Ifiez and Don Alvar. But the vows 
Once safely binding us, my household all 
Shall know you as their Duchess. No man then 
Can aim a blow at you but through my breast. 
Nay, God himself will never have the power 
To strike you solely and leave me unhurt, 
He having made us one. 

Fedalma. 

To-morrow I shall be your wife ! 
Now, I am glad I saw the town to-day 
Before I am a Duchess — glad I gave 
This poor Fedalma all her wish. 
Oh, I shall grieve a little for these days 
Of poor unwed Fedalma. Oh, they are sweet, 
And none will come just like them. 



24 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

Don Silva. 
Why, dearest, you began in merriment, 
And end as sadly as a widowed bird. 
Some touch mysterious has new-tuned your soul 
To melancholy sequence. 'Tis arbitrary grief! See! 
You know these jewels; they are precious signs [opens 

jewel casket] 
Of long-transmitted honor, and I give them you — 
Ask you to take them — place our house's trust 
In her sure keeping whom my heart has found 
Worthiest, most beauteous. These rubies — see — 
Were falsely placed if not upon your brow. 

Fedalma [looking in rapture at jewels]. 
Ah, I remember them. In childish days 
I felt as if they were alive and breathed. 
I used to sit with awe and look at them. 
And now they will be mine ! I '11 put them on. 
Help me, my lord, and you shall see me now 
Somewhat as I shall look at Court with you. 
That we may know if I shall bear them well. 
I have a fear sometimes : I think your love 
Has never paused within your eyes to look, 
And only passes through them into mine. 
But when the Court is looking, and the queen. 
Your eyes will follow theirs. Oh, if you saw 
That I was other than you wished — 'twere death ! 

Don Silva. 

Nay, let us try. 
Pray, fasten in the rubies. [Hands them to her.] 

Now, take the coronet. [He places it on her head.] 
The diamonds want more light. See, from this lamp 
I can set tapers burning. [Indicates action.] 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 25 

Fedalma. 

Tell me, now, 
When all these cruel wars are at an end, 
And when we go to Court at Cordova, 
Or Seville, or Toledo — wait a while, from him.] 

I must be farther off for you to see. [She retreats 
Now think (I would the tapers gave more light !) 
If when you show me at the tournaments 
Among the other ladies, they will say, 
<'Duke Silva is well matched. His bride might have 

[been well born." 
Will they say so? Think now we are at Court, 
And all eyes bent on me. 

Don Silva. 

Fear not, my Duchess ! 
None can say Don Silva 's bride might better fit her 

[rank. 
A crown upon your brow would seem God-made. 

Fedalma. 

Then I am glad ! I shall try on to-night 
The other jewels — have the tapers lit, 
And see the diamonds sparkle. 

Here is gold — 
A necklace of pure gold — most finely wrought. 

[She takes out a large gold necklace.] 
But this is one that you have worn, my lord? 

Don Silva. 

No, love, I never wore it. Lay it down. 
You must not look at jewels any more, 
But look at me. 



26 THE SPANISH* GIPSY. 

Fedalma [looking up at him]. 

O you dear heaven! 
I should see nought if you were gone. 
You are my king, and I shall tremble still 
With some great fear that throbs within my love. 
Does your love fear? 

Don Silva. 

Ah, yes ! all preciousness 
To mortal hearts is guarded by a fear. 
All love fears loss. If we lost our love 
What should we find? — with this sweet Past torn off, 
Our lives deep scarred just where their beauty lay? 
And so I tremble too before my queen Fedalma. 
And you will rise with day and wait for me? 

Fedalma. 
Yes. 

Don Silva. 

I shall surely come. 
And then we shall be married. Now I go 
To audience fixed in Abderahman's tower. 
Farewell, love! 

Fedalma. 

Some chill dread possesses me! 

Don Silva. 

Oh, confidence has oft been evil augury, 

So dread may hold a promise. 

I shall send tendance as I pass, to bear 

This casket to your chamber. Sweet, farewell! 

[Exit Silva.] 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 27 

Fedalma [returning to the casket, and looking dreamily 
at the jewels]. 

Yes, now that good seems less impossible ! 

Now it seems true that I shall be his wife, 

Be ever by his side, and make a part 

In all his purposes. . . . 

These rubies greet me Duchess. How they glow ! 

Their prisoned souls are throbbing like my own. 

Perchance they loved once, were ambitious, proud; 

Or do they only dream of wider life, 

Ache from intenseness, yearn to burst the wall 

Compact of crystal splendor, and to flood 

Some wider space with glory? Poor, poor gems! 

We must be patient in our prison-house, 

And find our space in loving. And you, gold — 

[She takes up the gold necklace.] 
You wondrous necklace — why, it is magical ! 
He says he never wore it — yet these twisted lines — 
They seem to speak to me as writing would, 
To bring a message from the dead, dead past. 
What is their secret? Are they characters? 
I never learned them; yet they stir some sense 
That once I dreamed — I have forgotten what. 

lEnter Juan.] 

Juan. 
Sefiora ! 

Fedalma [starts, and gathering the necklace together, 

turns round]. 
Oh, Juan, it is you ! 



28 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

Juan. 
I met the Duke — 
And when he ordered one to wait on you 
And carry forth a burden you would give, 
I prayed for leave to be the servitor. 
I see you hold the Gipsy's necklace: it is quaintly 

[wrought. 

Fedalma. 
The Gipsy's? Do you know its history? 

Juan. 
No farther back than when I saw it taken 
From off its wearer's neck — the Gipsy chief's. 

Fedalma [eagerly]. 
What ! he who paused, at tolling of the belJ, 
Before me in the Plaga? 

Juan. 

Yes, I saw 
His look fixed on you. 

Fedalma. 
Know you aught of him? 

Juan. 
Something and nothing — as I know the sky, 
Or some great story of the olden time 
That hides a secret. 

Fe alma. 
It is hard 
That such a man should be a prisoner — 
Be chained to work. 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 29 

Oh! they have made their fires beside the streams, 
Their walls have been the rocks, the pillared pines, 
Their roof the living sky that breathes with light: 
They may well hate a cage, like strong-winged birds, 
Like me, who have no wings, but only wishes. 
I will beseech the Duke to set them free. 
Now, honored Troubadour, bear this casket hence. 
Nay, not the necklace: it is hard to place. 

[Exit Juan with the casket.] 

Fed ALMA [looking again at the necklace]. 
It is his past clings to you, not my own. 
If we have each our angels, good and bad, 
Fates, separate from ourselves, who act for us 
When we are blind, or sleep, then this man's fate, 
Hovering about the thing he used to wear, 
Has laid its grasp on mine appealingly. 
So soft a night was never made for sleep, 
But for the waking of the finer sense. 
I need the curtained stillness of the night 
To live through all my happy hours again 
With more selection. For if the earth broke off 
Leaving no footing for my forward step 
But empty blackness . . . 

Nay, there is no fear — 
They will renew themselves, day and my joy, 
And all that past which is securely mine. 

[While she is uttering the last words, a little bird 
falls softly on the floor behind her; she hears 
the light sound of its fall and turns round.] 
Did something enter? . . . 

Yes, this little bird, . . . 

[She lifts it.] 
Dead and yet warm. 



30 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

Stay, there is something tied beneath the wing! 

A strip of Hnen, streaked with blood — ^what blood? 

The streaks are written words — are sent to me — 

God, are sent to me! "Dear child, Fedalma, 
Be brave, give no alarm — your Father comes!" 

[She lets the bird fall again.] 
My Father . . . comes . . . my Father . . . 

[She turns in quivering expectation toward the 
window. There is perfect stillness a few 
moments until Zarca appears at the window. 
He enters quickly and noiselessly; then 
stands still at his full height, and at a distance 
from Fedalma.] 

Fedalma [in a low distinct tone of terror]. 

It is he! 

1 said his fate had laid its hold on mine. 

Zarca [advancing a step or two]. 
You know, then, who I am? 

Fedalma. 

The prisoner — 
He whom I saw in fetters — and this necklace. . . . 

Zarca. 

Was played with by your fingers when it hung 
About my neck, full fifteen years ago. 

Fedalma [looking at the necklace and handling it, then 
speaking, as if unconsciously]. 

Full fifteen years ago I 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 31 

Zarca. 

The very day 
I lost you, when you wore a tiny gown 
Of scarlet cloth with golden broidery. 

Fedalma [growing paler and more tremulous]. 

Yes. It is true — I have the gown — it is long ago ! 
How came it that you sought me — no — I mean 
How came it that you knew me — that you lost me? 

Zarca. 

I lost you by a trivial accident. 

Marauding Spaniards, sweeping like a storm 

Over a spot within the Moorish bounds. 

Near where our camp lay, doubtless snatched you up 

When Zind, your nurse, as she confessed, was urged 

By burning thirst to wander toward the stream 

And leave you on the sand some paces off. 

Twas so I lost you — never saw you more 

Until to-day I saw you dancing ! Saw 

The daughter of the Zincalo make sport 

For those who spit upon her people's name. 

Fedalma [vehemently]. 

It was not sport. What if the world looked on? — 
I danced for joy — for love of all the world. 
But when you looked at me my joy was stabbed — 
Stabbed with your pain. I wondered . . . now I 
It was my father's pain. [know . . . 

[She pauses a moment, then she says quickly] 
How were you sure 
At once I was your child? 



32 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

Zarca. 

I had witness strong 
Before I saw you ! 

I fitted all my memories with the chat 
Of one named Juan. I learned all 
The story of your Spanish nurture — all 
The promise of your fortune. When at last 
I fronted you, my little maid full-grown, 
Belief was turned to vision. Therefore I sought — 
Therefore I come to claim you — claim my child. 

Fedalma [after a moment, slowly and distinctly, as 

if accepting a doom]. 
Then ... I was born ... a Zincala? 

Zarca. 

Of a blood 
Unmixed as virgin wine- juice. 

Your flesh 
Stamped with your people's faith. 

Fedalma [bitterly]. 

The Gipsies' faith? 
Men say they have none. 

Zarca. 

Oh, it is a faith 
Taught by no priest, but by their beating hearts: 
Faith to each other: the fidelity 
Of men whose pulses leap with kindred fire, 
Who in the flash of eyes, the clasp of hands, 
Feel the mystic stirring of a common life 
Which makes the many one. 

And you have sworn — even with your infant breath 
You too were pledged . . , 



T*HE SPANISH GIPSY. S3 

Fedalma. 

To what? what have I sworn? 

Zarca. 

To take the heirship of the Gipsy's child; 
The child of him, who, being chief, will be 
The savior of his tribe. 

Fedalma. 
Say what is my tash, 

Zarca. 

To be the angel of a homeless tribe: 

To help me bless a race taught by no prophet 

And make their name, now but a badge of scorn, 

A glorious banner floating in their midst. 

I'll guide my brethren forth to their new land. 

Where they shall plant and sow and reap their own. 

That land awaits them: they await their chief — 

Me who am prisoned. All depends on you. 

Fedalma [rising to her full height, and looking sol- 
emnly at Zarca]. 

Father, your child is ready ! She will not 
Forsake her kindred; she will brave all scorn 
Sooner than scorn herself. Father, listen. 
The Duke to-morrow weds me secretly: 
But straight he will present me as his wife 
To all his household, cavaliers and dames 
And noble pages. Then I will declare 
Before them all, "I am his daughter, his, 
The Gipsy's, owner of this golden badge." 
Then I shall win your freedom; then the Duke — 



34 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

Why, he will be your son ! — will send you forth 
With aid and honors. Then, before all eyes 
111 clasp this badge on you, and lift my brow 
For you to kiss it, saying by that sign, 
''I glory in my father." This, to-morrow. 

Zarca. 

A woman's dream! What! marry first. 
And then proclaim your birth? Share another's name, 
Then treat it as you will? How will that tune 
Ring in your bridegroom's ears — that sudden song 
Of triumph in your Gipsy father? 

Fed ALMA. 

Oh, I am not afraid ! 
His love for me is stronger than all hate. 
He will never hate the race that bore him 
What he loves the most. And to-morrow, 
Father, as surely as this heart shall beat, 
You — every Gipsy chained, shall be set free. 

Zarca. 

Too late, too poor a service that, my child ! 
Not so the woman who would save her tribe 
Must help its heroes — not by wordy breath. 
By easy prayers strong in a lover's ear. 

Other work is yours. 

Fedalma. 

What work? — what is it that you ask of me? 

Stay! never utter it! 
If it can part my lot from his whose love 
Has chosen me. Talk not of oaths, of birth, 
Of men as numerous as the dim white stars — 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 35 

No ills on earth, though you should count them up 
With grains to make a mountain, can outweigh 
For me his ill who is my supreme love. 



Zarca. 

I know, I know it well — 
The first young passionate wail of spirts called 
To some great destiny. In vain, my daughter! 
Hear what you have to do. 
My comrades even now file off their chains 
In a low turret by the battlements. 
Where we were locked with slight and sleepy guard — 
We who had files hid in our shaggy hair. 
And possible ropes that waited but our will 
In half our garments. Oh, the Moorish blood 
Runs thick and warm to us, though thinned by chrism. 
I found a friend among our gaolers — one 
Who loves the Gipsy as the Moor's ally. 
I know the secrets of this fortress. Listen. 
Hard by yon terrace is a narrow stair. 
Cut in the living rock, and at one point 
A low wooden door, that art has bossed 
To such unevenness, it seems one piece 
With the rough-hewn rock. Open that door, it leads 
Through a broad passage burrowed underground 
A good half-mile out to the open plain : 
Made for escape, in dire extremity. To find that door 
Needs one who knows the number of the steps 
Just to the turning-point; to open it, 
Needs one who knows the secret of the bolt. 
You have that secret: you will ope that door, 
And fly with us. 



S6 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

Fed ALMA [receding a little, and gathering herself up 
in an attitude of resolve opposite to Zarca]. 
No, I will never fly ! 
Never forsake that chief half of my soul 
Where lies my love. I swear to set you free. 
Ask for no more ; it is not possible. 
Father, my soul is not too base to ring 
At touch of your great thoughts. But — 
Look at these hands ! You say when they were little 
They played about the gold upon your neck. 
I do believe it, but see them now ! 
Oh, they have made fresh record ; twined themselves 
With other throbbing hands whose pulses feed 
Not memories only, but a blended life — 
Life that will bleed to death if it be severed. 
Have pity on me, father! Wait the morning; 
Say you will wait the morning. I will win 
Your freedom openly : your shall go forth 
With aid and honors. Silva will deny 
Nought to my asking . . . 

Zarca. 
You cannot free us and come back to him. 

Fedalma. 
And why? 

I only owe 

A daughter's debt; I was not born a slave. 

Zarca. 
No, not a slave; but you were born to reign. 
'Tis a compulsion of a higher sort, 
Whose fetters are the net invisible 
That holds all life together. 
You belong to your tribe. 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 37 

Fedalma. 

No! 
I belong to him who loves me — whom I love — 
To whonl I pledged a woman's truth. And that is 

[nature too, 
Issuing a fresher law than laws of birth. 

Zarca. 

Unmake yourself, then, from a Zincala — 
Unmake yourself from being child of mine ! 
Will you adopt a soul without its thoughts, 
Or grasp a life apart from flesh and blood? 
Till then you cannot wed a Spanish Duke 
And not wed shame at mention of your race, 
That child of mine who weds my enemy — 
Forsakes her people, leaves their poverty 
To join the luckier crowd that mocks their woes — 
That child of mine is doubly murderess. 
Murdering her father's hope, her people's trust. 
Such draughts are mingled in your cup of love ! 

Fedalma. 

No! 
But if I part from him I part from joy. 
Oh, it was morning with us — I seemed young. 
But now I know I am an aged sorrow — 
My people's sorrow. Father, since I am yours — 
Put cords upon me, drag me to the doom 
My birth has laid upon me. I cannot will to go. 

Zarca. 

Will then to stay ! You, my only heir, 
Are called to reign for me when I am gone. 



38 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

Now choose your deed : to save or to destroy. 

You, a born Zincala — you hold a curse 

Or blessing in the hollow of your hand — 

Say you will loose that hand from fellowship, [race ! 

Let go the rescuing rope. Say you will curse your 

Fedalma. 

No, no — I will not say it — I will go ! 
Father, I choose ! I will not take a heaven 
Haunted by shrieks of far-off misery. Father, I 

[will go. 
I will strip off these gems. Some happier bride 
Shall wear them, since Fedalma would be dowered 
With nought but curses. 

[She begins to take off her jewels.] 
Now, good gems, we part, 
Speak of me always tenderly to Silva. 

[She pauses, turning to Zarca.] 

father, will the women of our tribe 
Suffer as I do, in the years to come 
When you have made them great in Africa? 
Redeemed from ignorant ills only to feel 

A conscious woe? Then — is it worth the pains? 

Zarca. 

Nay, never falter : no great deed is done 
By falterers who ask for certainty. 

Fedalma. 

1 will not be half-hearted : never yet 
Fedalma did aught with a wavering soul. 

Father, come] 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 39 

Zarca. 
But write now to the Spaniard. 

Fedalma. 

Yes, I will write, but he — 
Oh, he would know it— he would never think 
The chain that dragged me from him could be aught 
But scorching iron entering in my soul. 

[She writes.] 
''Silva, sole love— he came— my father came. 
I am the daughter of the Gipsy chief 
Who means to he the savior of our tribe. 
He calls on me to live for his great end. 
To live ? nay, die for it. Fedalma dies 
In leaving Silva: all that lives henceforth 
Is the poor Zincala." 

Father, now I go 
To wed my people's lot. 

Zarca. 

To wed a crown. 
Our people's lowly lot we will make royal- 



Come, my Queen! 



Fedalma. 



Stay, my betrothal ring!— one kiss— farewell! 
love, you were my crown. No other crown 
Is aught but thorns on my poor woman's brow. 



40 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

SCENE V. 

A Rocky Pass leading to Bedmdr. 

Beauteous Night lay dead 
Under the pall of twilight, and the love-star 
Sickened and shrank. Silva was marching homeward. 
He had delight in all that told 
Of hurrying movement to o'ertake his thought 
Already in Bedmar, close to Fedalma, 
Leading her forth a wedded bride, fast vowed. 
Sudden within the pass a horseman rose. 
It was his friend Don Alvar whom he saw 
Reining. his horse up, face to face with him, 
Sad as the twilight, all his clothes ill-girt — 
Silva believed he saw the worst — the town 
Stormed by the infidel. 
But with a marble face, he only said, 
''What evil, Alvar?" 

''What this paper speaks." 
It was Fedalma's letter folded close 
And mute as yet for Silva. 
''It will smite hard, my lord: a private grief. 
The smaller ill is that our Gipsy prisoners have 

[escaped." 
"Bid them march on faster.' 
Silva pushed forward — held the paper crushed 
Close in his right. "They have imprisoned her." 
"No — when they came to fetch her she was gone." 
Swift as the right touch on a spring, that word 
Made Silva read the letter. She was gone! 
But not into locked darkness — only gone 
I nto free air — where he might find her yet. 
This misery had yet a taste of joy. 

But she was gone ! 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 41 

SCENE VI. 

The Castle. 

The sun had risen, and in the castle walls 

The light grew strong and stronger. Silva walked 

Through the long corridor where dimness yet 

Cherished a lingering, flickering, dying hope. 

But in the rooms inexorable light 

Streamed through the open window where she fled, 

Streamed on the belt and coronet thrown down — 

Mute witnesses — sought out the typic ring 

That sparkled on the crimson, solitary, 

Wounding him like a word. O hateful light! 

It filled the chambers with her absence, glared 

On all the motionless things her hand had touched. 

It was the lute, the gems, the pictured heads 

He longed to crush, because they made no sign 

But of insistence that she was not there. 

She who had filled his sight and hidden them. 

He went forth on the terrace tow'rd the stairs, 

Saw the rained petals of the cistus flowers 

Crushed by large feet; but on one shady spot 

Far down the steps, where dampness made a home, 

He saw a footprint delicate-slippered, small. 

So dear to him; he searched for sister-prints. 

Searched in the rock-hewn passage with a lamp 

For other trace of her, and found a glove; 

But not Fedalma's. It was Juan's glove, 

Tasselled, perfumed, embroidered with his name, 

A gift of dames. Then Juan, too, was gone? 

So Don Alvar told, 
Conveying outside rumor. But the Duke 



42 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

• 

Would show no agitated front in quest 
Of small disclosures. What her writing bore 
Had been enough. He knew that she was gone, 
Knew why. 

This Chief 
Might still be treated with, would not refuse 
A proffered ransom, which would better serve 
Gipsy prosperity, give him more power 
Over his tribe, than any fatherhood. 
The Gipsy chieftain had foreseen a price 
That would be paid him for his daughter's dower. 
Silva said, "She is not lost to me. 
What barrier is this Gipsy? a mere gate 
I'll find the key for.'^ 



SCENE VII. 

The Gipsy Camp. — Enter Fedalma, wearing the 
costume of the Gipsies, and attended by Juan. 

Juan. 
How is it with you, lady? You look sad. 

Fedalma. 

Oh, I am sick at heart. The eye of day, 
The insistent sunmier sun, seems pitiless, 
Shining in all the barren crevices 
Of weary life, leaving no shade, no dark. 
Where I may dream that hidden waters lie. 
And, Juan, you — ^you, too, are cruel. 

Deny it not, 
You know how many leagues this camp of ours 
Lies from Bedmar — what mountains lie between— 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 43 

Could tell me if you would about the Duke — 
That he is comforted, sees how he gains 
Losing the Zmcala, finds now how slight 
The thread Fedalma made in that rich web, 
A Spanish noble's life. No, that is false! 
He never would think lightly of our love. 
Some evil has befallen him — he's slain — 
Has sought for danger and has beckoned death 
Because I made all life seem treachery. 
Tell me the worst — be merciful — no worst, 
Against the hideous painting of my fear, 
Would not show like a better. 
Sit now, and tell me all. 

Juan. 

That all is nought. 
Your father trusts no secret to the echoes. 
Why, if he found me knowing aught too much, 
He would straight gag or strangle me, and say, 
"Poor hound! it was a pity that his bark 
Could chance to mar my plans." 

Fedalma. 

Good Juan, I could have no nobler friend. 

You'd ope your veins and let your life-blood out 

To save another's pain, yet hide the deed with jesting. 

Shall I, to ease my fevered restlessness, 

Raise peevish moans? 

No ! On the close-thronged spaces of the earth 

A battle rages : Fate has carried me 

'Mid the thick arrows: I will keep my stand — 

Not shrink and let the shaft pass by my breast 



44 THE SPANISH GIJPSY. 

To pierce another. Oh, 'tis written large 

The thing I have to do. 

Leave me in this green spot, but come again. 

Juan. 
Queen, farewell ! [Exit Juan.] 

Fedalma. 

Best friend, my well-spring in the wilderness ! 

[Enter Zarca.] 
Zarca. 

My royal daughter ! 

Fedalma. 

Father, I joy to see your safe return. 

Is the task achieved 
That was to be the herald of our flight? 

Zarca. 

Not outwardly, but to my inward vision 
Things are achieved when they are well begun. 
You shall not long count days in weariness. 
Ere the full moon has waned again to new, 
We shall reach Almeria. 

Say, now, my child, 
You will not falter, not look back and long 
For unfledged ease in some soft alien nest. 

Fedalma. 

Father, my soul is weak, the mist of tears 

Still rises to my eyes, and hides the goal 

Which to your undimmed sight is fixed and clear. 

But faithfulness can feed on suffering, 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 45 

And knows no disappointment. Trust in me ! 
Father, I will be true ! 

Zarca. 

I trust that w^ord. 
Now I must hasten back. Farewell, my younger self — 
Strong-hearted daughter ! Shall I live in you 
When the earth covers me? 

Fedalma. 

My father, death 
Should give your will divineness, make it strong 
With the beseechings of a mighty soul 
That left its work unfinished. Kiss me now, 

[They embrace, and she adds tremulously as 
they part,] 
And when you see fair hair, be pitiful. 

[Exit Zarca.] 

[Fedalma seats herself on the hank, leans her head 

forward, and covers her face with her drapery.] 

[Enter Hind a.] 

HiNDA. 

Our Queen! Can she be crying? 

Queen, a branch of roses 
So sweet you'll love to smell them. 'Twas the last. 
I climbed the bank to get it before Tralla, 
And slipped and scratched my arm. But I don't mind. 
You love the roses — so do I. I wish 
The sky would rain down roses, as they rain 
From off the shaken bush. Why will it not? 
Then all the valley would be pink and white 
And soft to tread on. They would fall as light 



46 THE SPANISH GfEPSY. 

As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be 
Like sleeping and yet waking, all at once ! 
Over the sea, Queen, where we soon shall go, 
Will it rain roses? 

Fedalma. 

No, my prattler, no ! 
It never will rain roses : when we want 
To have more roses we must plant more trees. 
But you want nothing, little one — the world 
Just suits you as it suits the tawny squirrels. 
Come, you want nothing. 

HiNDA. 

Yes, I want more berries — 
Red ones — to wind about my neck and arms 
When I am married — on my ankles too 
I want to wind red berries, and on my head. 

Fedalma. 
Who is it you are fond of? Tell me, now. 

HiNDA. 

O Queen, you know! It could be no one else 

But Ismael. He catches all the birds. 

Knows where the speckled fish are, scales the rocks, 

And sings and dances with me when I like. 

How should I marry and not marry him? 

Fedalma. 

Should you have loved him, had he been a Moor, 
Or white Castilian? 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 47 

Hind A [starting]. 

Are you angry, Queen? 
Say why you will think shame of your poor Hinda? 
She'd sooner be a rat and hang on thorns 
Than be an outcast, spit at by her tribe. 

Fedalma. 

I think no evil — am not angry, child. 
But would you part from Ismael? leave him now 
If your chief bade you — said it was for good 
To all your tribe that you must part from him? 

Hinda [giving a sharp cry]. 
Ah, will he say so? 

Fedalma [almost fierce in her earnestness]. 

Nay, child, answer me. 
Could you leave Ismael? get into a boat 
And see the waters widen 'twixt you two 
Till all was water and you saw him not, 
And knew that you would never see him more? 
If 'twas your chief's command, and if he said 
Your tribe would all be slaughtered, die of plague, 
Of famine — madly drink each other's blood . . . 

Hinda [trembling]. 
O Queen, if it is so, tell Ismael. 

Fedalma. 
You would obey, then? part from him for ever? 



48 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

HiNDA. 

How could we live else? With our brethren lost? — 

No marriage feast? The day would turn to dark. 

A Zincala cannot live without her tribe. 

I must obey ! Poor Ismael — poor Hinda ! 

But will it ever be so cold and dark? 

Oh, I would sit upon the rocks and cry, 

And cry so long that I could cry no more. 

Fedalma. 

No, Hinda, no! 
Thou never shalt be called to part form him. 
I will have berries for thee, red and black, 
And I will be so glad to see thee glad, 
That earth will seem to hold enough of joy 
To outweigh all the pangs of those who part. 
Be comforted, bright eyes. See, I will tie 
These roses in a crown for thee to wear. 

Hinda [clapping her hands]. 

Oh, I'm as glad as many little foxes — 
I will find Ismael, and tell him all. 

[She runs off.] 

Fedalma. 
She has the strength I lack. 
I could be firm, could give myself the wrench 
And walk erect, hiding my life-long wound, 
If I but saw the fruit of all my pain. 
But now I totter, seeing no far goal: 
I tread the rocky pass, and pause and grasp, 
Guided by flashes. When my father comes, 
And breathes into my soul his generous hope — 
By his own greatness making life seem great, 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 49 

Resolve is strong : I can embrace my sorrow, 

Nor nicely weigh the fruit; possessed with need 

Solely to do the noblest, though it failed — 

But soon the glow dies out, the trumpet strain 

That vibrated as strength through all my limbs 

Is heard no longer; 

Then I sink helpless — sink into the arms 

Of all sweet memories, and dream of bliss: 

See looks that penetrate like tones; hear tones 

That flash looks with them. Even now I feel 

Soft airs enwrap me, as if yearning rays 

Of some far presence touched me with their warmth 

And brought a tender murmuring . . . 

[While she mused, 
A figure came from out the olive trees, paused 
At sight of her ; then slowly forward moved 
With careful steps, and gently said, "Fedalma!" 
She quivered, rose, but turned not. Soon again; 
"Fedalma, it is Silva !" Then she turned. 

Vision held her still 
One moment, then with gliding motion swift, 
She found her rest within his circling arms,] 

Fed ALMA. 

O love, you are living, and believe in me! 

You did not hate me, then — 
Think me an ingrate — thinly my love was small 
That I forsook you? 

Don Silva. 

Dear, I trusted you 
As holy men trust God. You could do nought 
That was not pure and loving — though the deed 
Might pierce me unto death. 



50 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

♦ 

Fed ALMA. 

I thought I had so much to tell you, love — 

Long eloquent stories — ^how it all befell. 

But if it all were said, 'twould end in this, 

That I still loved you when I fled away. 

But tell me how you came. Where are your guards? 

Is there no risk? And now I look at you, 

This garb is strange . . . 

Don Silva. 
I came alone. 

Fedalma. 

Alone? 

Don Silva. 

Yes — ^fled in secret. There was no way else 
To find you safely. 

Fedalma. 

Silva! 

Don Silva. 

It is nought. 
Enough that I am here. You left me once 
To set your father free. That task is done, 
And you are mine again. [Enter Zarca, unobserved.] 

I have braved all 
That I might find you, see your father, win 
His furtherance in bearing you away 
To some safe refuge. Are we not betrothed? 



THE SAPNISH GIPSY. 61 

Fed ALMA [keeping his hand]. 

Silva, if now between us came a sword, 
Severed my arm, and left our two hands clasped, 
This poor maimed arm would feel the clasp till death. 
What parts us is a sword . . . 

[Zarca has been advancing in the background 

He has drawn his sword, and now thrusts 

the naked blade between them.] 

Zarca. 

Ay, 'tis a sword 
That parts the Spaniard and the Zincala : 
A sword that was baptized in Christian blood. 

[Resting the point of his sword on the ground. 
My lord Duke, 
I was a guest within your fortress once 
Against my will; had entertainment too — 
Much like a galley-slave's. Pray, have you sought 
The Zincala 's camp, to find a fit return 
For that Castilian courtesy? 

Don Silva. 
Chief, I have brought no scorn to meet your scorn] 
I came because love urged me — that deep love 
I bear to her whom you call daughter — her 
Whom I reclaim as my betrothed bride. 

Zarca. 

Doubtless you bring for final argument 
Your men-at-arms who will escort your bride? 

Don Silva. 

I came alone. The only force I bring 
Is tenderness. Nay, I will trust besides 



52 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

In all the pleadings of a father's care 
To wed his daughter as her nurture bids. 
And for your tribe — whatever purposed good 
Your thoughts may cherish, I will make secure 
With the strong surety of a noble's power; 
My wealth shall be your treasury. 

Zarca [with irony]. 

My thanks! 
To me you offer liberal price. 
I tell you, were you King of Aragon, 
And won my daughter's hand, your higher rank 
Would blacken her dishonor. Our people's faith 
Is faithfulness; not the rote-learned belief 
That we are heaven's highest favorites, 
But the resolve that being most forsaken 
Among the sons of men, we will be true 
Each to the other, and our common lot. 
I speak not now to you, but to my daughter. 
If she still calls it good to take a lot 
That measures joy for her as she forgets 
Her kindred and her kindred's misery. 
Nor feels the softness of her downy couch 
Marred by remembrance that she once forsook 
The place that she was born to — let her go ! 
She is my only offspring; in her veins 
She bears the blood her tribe has trusted in. 
Now choose, Fedalma ! 

[But her choice was made. 
Slowly, while yet her father spoke, she moved 
To choose sublimer pain.] 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 63 



Fedalma. 



Silva, it is fate. 
Great Fate has made me heiress of this woe. 
You must forgive Fedalma all her debt: 
She is quite beggared. It is truth 
My father speaks: the Spanish noble's wife 
Were a false Zmcala. Dear, farewell! 
I must go with my people. 

Don Silva. 

No, I will never leave you! 

What if my words 
Were meant for deeds, decisive as a leap 
Into the current? I faced all risks 
To find Fedalma. Action speaks again 
When I, a Spanish noble, here declare 
That I abide with her, adopt her lot, 
Claiming alone fulfilment of her vows 
As my betrothed wife. 

Fedalma. 

Nay, Silva, nay! 
You could not live so — spring from your high place 

Don Silva. 

Yes, I have said it. And you, chief, are bound 
By her strict vows, no stronger fealty 
Being left to cancel them. 

Zarca. 

Strong words, my lord! 
Sounds fatal as the hammer-strokes that shape 
The glowing metal : they must shape your life. 



54 THE SPANISH 'GIPSY. 

That you will claim my daughter is to say 
That you will leave your Spanish dignities, 
Your home, your wealth, your people, to become 
Wholly a Zmcalo: take the deep oath 
That binds you to us; rest within our camp, 
Nevermore hold command of Spanish men. 
And keep my orders. See, my lord, you lock 
A many-winding chain — a heavy chain. 

Don Silva. 

I have but one resolve : let the rest follow. 
What is my rank ? I shall be no more missed 
Than waves are missed that leaping on the rock 
Find there a bed and rest. 
And I have said it: she shall be my people, 
And where she gives her life I will give mine. 

Zarca. 
You are agreed, my lord? 

Don Silva. 

Agreed to all. 

Zarca. 

Then I will give the summons to our camp. 
We will adopt you as a brother now, 
After our wonted fashion. 

[Exit Zarca.] 

Fed ALMA. 

O my lord! 
I think the earth is trembling. 
You— join — our tribe? Silva, had you but said 
That you would die — that were an easy task 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 55 

For you who oft have fronted death in war. 

But so to Hve for me — you, used to rule — 

You could not breathe the air my father breathes: 

His presence is subjection. Go, my lord! 

Fly while there is yet time. Wait not to speak. 

I will declare that I refused your love — 

Would keep no vows to you . . . 

Don Silva. 

It is too late. 
You shall not thrust me back to seek a good 
Apart from you. And what good? Why, to face 
Your absence — all the want that drove me forth — 
Life at least gives choice of ills; forces me to defy, 
But shall not force me to a weak defiance. 

Let him command, 
For when your father speaks, I shall hear you. 
Life were no gain if you were lost to me : 
I would go straight and seek the Moorish walls, 
Challenge their bravest, and embrace swift death. 

Fedalma. 

My father shook my soul awake. And you — 
The bonds Fedalma may not break for you, 
I cannot joy that you should break for her. 

Don Silva. 

Oh, Spanish men are not a petty band 

Where one deserter makes a fatal breach. 

See where your father comes and brings a crowd 

Of witnesses to hear my oath of love; 

This seems a valley in some strange new world, 

Where we have found each other, my Fedalma. 



56 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 



SCENE VIII. 

The Plaja Santiago in Bedmdr. A crowd of 
townsmen forming an outer circle : within, Zmcali 
and Moorish soldiers. Moorish music. Zarca en- 
ters, wearing his gold necklace with the Gipsy 
badge over the dress of a Moorish Captain, accom- 
panied by a small band of armed Zmcali, who 
fall aside and range themselves with the other 
soldiers while he takes his stand in front. The 
music ceases, and there is expectant silence. 

Zarca. 

Men of Bedmar, well-wishers, and allies, 

Whether of Moorish or of Hebrew blood, 

Who, being galled by the hard Spaniard's yoke, 

Have welcomed our quick conquest as release, 

I, Zarca, chief of Spanish Gipsies, hold 

By delegation of the Moorish King 

Supreme command within this town and fort. 

And, as ye know, while I was prisoner here, 

Forging the bullets meant for Moorish hearts, 

But likely now to reach another mark, 

I learned the secrets of the town's defence. 

Caught the loud whispers of your discontent, 

And so could serve the purpose of the Moor. 

My Zmcah, lynx-eyed and lithe of limb. 

Tracked out the high Sierra's hidden path, 

Guided the hard ascent, and were the first 

To scale the walls and brave the showering stones. 

Ye wish us well, I think, and are our friends? 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 57 

Crowd. 
Long life to Zarca and his Zincali ! 



[Enter Don Silva. 



Don Silva. 



Chief, you are treacherous, cruel, devilish! — 
Oh, it was bitter wrong 
To hold this knowledge locked within your mind, 
To stand with waking eyes in broadest light, 
And see me, dreaming, shed my kindred's blood. 

Zarca. 

You are not commander of Bedmar, 

Nor duke, nor knight, nor anything for me, 

Save a sworn Gipsy, subject with my tribe, 

Over whose deeds my will is absolute. 

You chose that lot, and would have railed at me 

Had I refused it you : I warned you first 

What oaths you had to take . . . 

Don Silva. 

You never warned me 
That you had linked yourself with Moorish men 
To take this town and fortress of Bedmar — 
Slay my near kinsman — slay my friend, 
My chosen brother — desecrate the church — 
You ne\er warned . . . 

Zarca. 

I warned you of your oath. 
You shrank not, were resolved, were sure your place 
Would never miss you, and you had your will. 



68 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

Don Silva. 

I said my place would never miss me — ^yes! 
A thousand Spaniards died on that same day 
And were not missed. 

Zarca. 

But you were just the one 
Above the thousand, had you known the die 
That fate was throwing then. 

Don Silva. 

You knew it — ^you ! 
With fiendish knowledge, smiling at the end. 
You knew what snares had made my flying steps 
Murderous. 

Zarca. 
The deed was done 
Before you took your oath, or reached our camp, — 
Done when you slipped in secret from the post 
'Twas yours to keep, and not to meditate 
If others might not fill it. For your oath. 
What man is he who brandishes a sword 
In darkness, kills his friends, and rages then 
Against the night that kept him ignorant? 

Stand aside, my lord ! 
You vowed obedience to me, your chief. 
To me you're nought more than a Zlncalo in revolt. 

Don Silva. 
No, I'm no Zfncalo! I here disown 
The name I took in madness. Here I tear 
This badge away. I am a Catholic knight, 
A Spaniard who will die a Spaniard's death! 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 59 

[With sudden snatch 
At something hidden in his breast, he strode 
Right upon Zarca; at the instant, down 
Fell the great Chief, and Silva, staggering back, 
Heard not the Gipsies' shriek, felt not the fangs 
Of their fierce grasp — heard, felt but Zarca 's words 
Which seemed his soul outleaping in a cry.] 

Zarca. 

My daughter! call her! Call my daughter! 

Stay! 
Tear not the Spaniard, tie him to the stake. 

[Swiftly they tied him, pleasing vengeance so 
With promise that would leave them free to watch 
Their stricken good, their Chief stretched helplessly 
Pillowed upon the strength of loving limbs. 

And now around him closed 
His people all, holding their wails suppressed. 
Eager they stood, but hushed. 

But the cry, "She comes!'' 
Parted the crowd like waters. 

She knew — saw all: 
The stake with Silva bound — her father pierced — 
To this she had been born : a second time 
Her father called her to the task of life.] 

Zarca. 

My daughter, you have promised — you will live 
To save our people. 

Your weakness may be stronger than my strength, 
Winning more love. ... I cannot tell the end. . . . 
I held my people's good within my breast. 
Behold, now I deliver it to you. 



60 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

Let loose the Spaniard! give him back his sword: 
He cannot move to any vengeance more. 

My daughter, 
I cannot see you more . . . the Night is come. 
Be strong . . . remember . . . 

[His voice went into silence. 
Slow from the face the ethereal spirit waned, 
As wanes the parting glory from the heights, 
And leaves them in their pallid majesty. 
The wailing men in eager press closed round, 
And made a shadowing pall beneath the sun. 
They lifted reverent the prostrate strength. 
Sceptred anew by death. Fedalma walked 
Tearless, erect, following the dead — her cries 
Deep smothering in her breast, as one who guides 
Her children through the wilds, and sees and knows 
Of danger more than they, and feels more pangs. 
Yet shrinks not, groans not, bearing in her heart 
Their ignorant misery and their trust in her.] 



SCENE IX. 

The Bay of Almeria. 

The eastward rocks of Almerfa's bay 

Answer long farewells of the traveling sun 

With softest glow. All the Moorish ships 

Seem conscious too, and shoot out sudden shadows; 

Show decks as busy as a home of ants 

Storing new forage. 

Hither and thither, grave white-turbaned Moors 

Move helpfully, and some bring welcome gifts, 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 61 

Bright stuffs and cutlery, and bags of seed 

To make new waving crops in Africa. 

Raised by stone steps that sought a jutting strand, 

Fedalma stood and marked with anxious watch 

Each laden boat the remnant lessening 

Of cargo on the shore, imaging oft anew 

How much of labor still deferred the hour 

When they must lift the boat and her feet must quit 

This shore for ever. Motionless she stood, 

Black-robed, but bearing wide upon her breast 

Her father's golden necklace and his badge. 

Her limbs were motionless, but in her eyes 

And in her breathing lip's soft tremulous curve 

Was intense motion as of prisoned fire 

Escaping subtly in outleaping thought. 

Far, far the future stretched 
Beyond that busy present on the quay, 
Far her straight path beyond it. 

But emerging now 
From eastward fringing lines of idling men 
Quick Juan lightly sought the upward steps 
Behind Fedalma, and two paces off, 
With head uncovered, said in gentle tones, 
''Lady Fedalma!" — (Juan's password now 
Used by no other), and Fedalma turned, 
Knowing who sought her. Lower still he spoke. 

Juan. 

Look from me, lady, towards a moving form 

That quits the crowd and seeks the lonelier strand — 

A tall and gray-clad pilgrim. . . . 



62 THE SPANISH piPSY. 

Fedalma. 

It is he ! 

Juan. 

See now — 
Does he not Hnger — pause? — perhaps expect . . • 

[Juan plead timidly: Fedalma 's eyes 

Flashed. She was mute and made no gesture.] 

Juan. 

He came from Carthagena in a boat 

Too slight for safety; yon small two-oared boat 

Below the rock; the fisher-boy within 

Awaits his signal. But the pilgrim waits. . . . 

Fedalma. 

Yes, I will go ! — Father, I owe him this, 

For loving me made all his misery. 

And we will look once more — will say farewell 

As in a solemn rite to strengthen us 

For our eternal parting. Juan, stay 

Here in my place, to warn me, were there need. 

[She, down the steps along the sandy brink 
To where he stood, walked firm. 
He moved at sight of her : their glances met. 
Two paces off they stood and silently 
Looked at each other. Was it well to speak? 
Could speech be clearer, stronger, tell them more 
Than that long gaze of their renouncing love? 
They passed from silence hardly knowing how; 
It seemed they heard each other's thought before.] 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 63 



Don Silva. 



I go to be absolved, to have my life 

Washed into fitness for an offering 

To injured Spain. But I have nought to give 

For that last injury to her I loved 

Better than I loved Spain. 

I bring no puling pray'er, Fedalma — ask 

No balm of pardon that may soothe my soul 

For others' bleeding wounds: I am not come 

To say, "Forgive me:" you must not forgive, 

For you must see me ever as I am — 

Your father's . . . 

Fedalma. 

Speak it not ! We two, 
Grasping we knew not what, that seemed delight — 

Don Silva. 

We two?— 
Fedalma, you were blameless, helpless. 

Fedalma. 

No! 
It shall not be that you did aught alone. 
For when we loved I willed to reign in you. 
And I was jealous even of the day 
If it could gladden you apart from me. 
And so, it must be that I shared each deed 
Our love was root of. 
Nay, Silva, think of me as one who sees 
A light serene and strong on one sole path 
Which she will tread till death . . . 



64 THE SPANISH gIPSY. 

He trusted me, and I will keep his trust: 

My life shall be its temple. That is my chief good. 

The deepest hunger of a faithful heart 

Is faithfulness. Wish me nought else. And you — 

You too will live. . . . 

Don Silva. 

I go to Rome, to seek 
The right to use my knightly sword again; 
The right to fill my place and live or die 
So that all Spaniards shall not curse my name. 
I sat one hour upon the barren rock 
And longed to kill myself; but then I said, 
I will not leave my name in infamy, 
I will not take my stand 
Among the coward crew who could not bear 
The harm themselves had done, which others bore. 
My young life yet may fill some fatal breach, 
And I will take no pardon, not my own, 
Not God's — no pardon idly on my knees; 
But it shall come to me upon my feet 
And in the thick of action, and each deed 
That carried shame and wrong shall be the sting 
That drives me higher up the steep of honor. Aloud 
I said, ''I will redeem my name," and then — 
I know not if aloud : I felt the words 
Drinking up all my senses — ''She still lives. 
I would not quit the dear familiar earth 
Where both of us behold the self-same sun, 
Where there can be no strangeness 'twixt our thoughts 
So deep as their communion." Resolute 
I rose and walked. — Fedalma, think of me 
As one who seeks but to renew and keep the vows 
Of Spanish knight and noble. 



THE SPANISH GIPSY. 65 



Fedalma. 



We must walk 
Apart unto the end. Our marriage rite 
Is our resolve that we will each be true 
To high allegiance, higher than our love. 

Yet we are wed; 
For we shall carry each the pressure deep 
Of the other's soul. I soon shall leave the shore. 
The winds to-night will bear me far away. 
My lord, farewell! 



He did not say '' Farewell.'' 
But neither knew that he was silent. 
At last she turned and with swift movement passed, — 
Mounted the steps again and took her place. 
Which Juan rendered silently. 



Nadar had approached. 
Was the Queen ready? For the largest boat 
Was waiting at the quay, the last strong band 
Of Zmcali had ranged themselves in lines 
To guard her passage and to follow her. 
*'Yes, I am ready;" 
And then descending followed. All was still. 



Fedalma stepped 
From off the shore and saw it flee away — 
The land that bred her helping the resolve 
Which exiled her for ever. 



66 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

It was night 
Before the ships weighed anchor and gave sail; 
Fresh Night emergent in her clearness, lit 
By the large crescent moon, with Hesperus, 
And those great stars that lead the eager host. 
Fedalma stood and watched the little bark 
Lying jet-black upon moon-whitened waves. 

Silva was standing too. He too divined 
A steadfast form that held him with its thought, 
And eyes that sought him vanishing : he saw 
The waters widen slowly, till at last 
Straining he gazed, and knew not if he gazed 
On aught but blackness overhung by stars. 



fPHE END.] 



Critical IResume 

of 
44 



Ubc Spanish ©ipsip" 



CRITICAL RESUME OF 
"THE SPANISH GIPSY." 

By Florence P. Holden. 

[Condensed from article in " Werner's Magazine." (Copyright, 1898, 
by Edgar S. Werner.) Complete article sent for 35 cents.] 

" 'Tis the warm South, where Europe spreads her lands 
Like fretted leaflets, breathing on the deep: 
Bro«4-breasted Spain." 

The opening description serves for introduction, 
as in a sweep of vision lessening by degrees the poet 
shows first the lands of southern Europe, then 
Spain, next the town, and finally centres the gaze 
on the hero: a not uncommon method, but a pleas- 
ing one. See how charmingly the picture of the 
town is sketched : 

"This town that dips its feet within the stream, 
And seems to sit a tower-crowned Cybele, 
Spreading her ample robe adown the rocks, 
Is rich Bedmar." 

Now the hero's name is announced, and, the place 
of the dramatic action having been shown, the time 
is discussed. 

"To keep the Christian frontier — such high trust 
Is young Duke Silva's; and the time is great." 

The restatement "the time is great'' shows the 
parenthetical description at an end and links the 

67 



68 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

thought back to the first statement, giving a de- 
scription of the Duke himself. The Duke's titles 
and ancestry are declared and his command made 
known. Thought-antithesis is used again, serving 
to link the idea of his power of command with 

"himself commanded 
By-^ 

the mystery of his Spanish blood 
Charged with the awe and glories of the past," 

which in the end proves itself the all-powerful force 
of Silva's being, after the struggles of conflicting 
purposes have wrought out their strife. 

Now the introduction is at an end and the first 
scene is displayed. The ''whitened tavern court of 
Moorish fashion" seems a place well made for loiter- 
ing; and, while one awaits the real progress of the 
action of the story, he finds keen interest and pleasure 
in the characters sketched. 

"Mine Host is one: 

. . . . loving men for naught 
But his own humor." 

Juan is a wondrous mechanism as to character 
and influence, and of more potency than one might 
foresee. His character runs undercurrent through 
the story to its very close: 

"Juan was a troubadour revived, 
Freshening life's dusty road with babbhng rills 
Of wit and song, living 'mid harnessed men 
With limbs ungalled by armor, ready so 
To soothe them weary, and to cheer them sad. 
Guest at the board, companion in the camp, 
A crystal mirror to the life around. 
Such, Juan," 

whose influence is always present, hidden often 
darkly below the cause of actions, but bubbhng forth 



CRITICAL RESUME. 69 

in lyric interludes, characteristic of Spain and Spain's 
life of dance and song. Roldan, the jester, is here 
with his little lame son, Pablo, who 

"Sings God-taught such marrow-thrilling strains 
As saem the very voice of dying Spring. 

We see them all, 
And hear their talk, — the talk of Spanish men, 
With Southern intonation, vowels turned 
Caressingly between the consonants." 

Here first Silva is talked of, then comes the In- 
quisition and with it talk of the Prior, then Silva 
and Fedalma, — the girl of unknown birth, adopted 
and made princess by Silva 's mother — and with 
them Spanish knighthood is discussed and lowly 
birth just hinted at, later to be taken up as a study 
in heredity. So these, the Inquisition and heredity, 
leading to Spanish knighthood and to Gipsy traits, 
are the author's real subjects, and are here an- 
nounced so subordinately that they are not recog- 
nized as such until the thought tends back to this 
first scene as the story goes on. Lopez, the soldier 
comes in, and his character with the others in the 
tavern-court is epitomized in a masterly fashion. 
Listen to Juan's summing up of Silva 's knighthood 
and his love; 

"Yes, yes, consult thy spurs: 
Spurs are a sign of knighthood, and should tell thee 
That knightly love is blent with reverence 
As heavenly air is blent with heavenly blue. 
Don Silva's heart beats to a loyal tune: 
He wills no highest-born Castilian dame. 
Betrothed to highest noble, should be held 
More sacred than Fedalma. He enshrines 
Her virgin image for the general awe 
And for his own — will guard her from the world. 
Nay, his profaner self, lest he should lose 
The place of his religion. He does well. 
Naught can come closer to the poet's strain." 



70 THE SPANISH. GIPSY. 

Host. 

"Or farther from his practice, Juan, eh? 
If thou'rt a sample? " 

Juan. 

" Wrong there, my Lorenzol 
Touching Fedalma the poor poet plays 
A finer part even than the noble Duke." 

Here is the first manifestation of that wonderful 
devotion that is the motive for much of the action 
that follows in the drama of circumstance, of struggle 
and hopelessness. Further he speaks: 

"There's a poor poet (poor, I mean, in coin) 
Worships Fedalma with so true a love 
That if her silken robe were changed for rags. 
And she were driven out to stony wilds 
Barefoot, a scorned wanderer, he would kiss 
Her ragged garment's edge, and only ask 
For leave to be her slave." 

Soon we have Juan's first cancion, the first of 
those lyric interludes so charmingly sprinkled through- 
out the work, redolent of old Spain. Juan's second 
song pleases his listeners better than the first, for 
Blasco speaks: 

"Faith, a good song, sung to a stirring tune. 
I like the words returning in a round; 
It gives a sort of sense. Another such!" 

Juan has sung of Fedalma and' the refrain has come 
in each stanza. 

Linked closely to this, after the interruption inci- 
dent to the departure of Roldan and his little com- 
pany to prepare for the show on the Plaga, comes 
talk of the Gipsies. The subject is introduced by 
Lopez stating that his duty as guard over the Gip- 
sies will keep him from Pablo's show. 



CRITICAL RESUME. 71 

Now comes the poet's estimate of Zarca, the 
Gipsy chief: 

"We have a Gipsy in Bedmd,r whose frame 
Nature compacted with such fine selection, 
'Twould yield a dozen types." 

The Host explains how 

"Juan's fantastic pleasure is to watch 
These Gipsies forging, and to hold discourse 
With this great chief." 

Juan speaks on: 

"He had a necklace of a strange device 
In finest gold of unknown workmanship, 
But delicate as Moorish, fit to kiss 
Fedalma's neck, and play in shadows there." 

Strange thought that here links with subtle intui- 
tion this necklace of the Gipsy chief, a prisoner, with 
Fedalma, the princess. It is the clever casual touch 
of the artist here first hinting at the idea that recurs 
with growing meaning throughout the story. 

The scene changes to the Plaga Santiago, where 
Roldan's little show takes place with Pablo, to eke 
out the entertainment, and Pepita, a dear Httle 
Spanish girl who dances to Juan's music. But Rol- 
dan's little show serves a more dramatic purpose in 
the action of the general theme. An addition to the 
program comes most unexpectedly, for as 

"Roldan, weary, gathers pence. 
Followed by Annibal with purse and stick. 
The carpet lies a colored isle untrod, 
Inviting feet : 'The dance, the dance,' resounds, 
The bow entreats with slow melodic strain. 
And all the air with expectation yearns." 

George Eliot has made this last line strong, and 
one feels it must be strong indeed to give just excuse 



72 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

• 

for the next scene, for Fedalma, the princess, palace- 
reared, is shown dancing on the pubhc plaga~in 
itself rather an unaccountable event. Notice the 
first impression given of Fedalma : 

"A figure lithe, all white and saffron-robed, 
Flashed right across the circle, and now stood, 
With ripened arms uplift and regal head, 
Like some tall flower whose dark and intense heart 
Lies half within a tulip-tinted cup." 

Juan's lute is needed, and his voice, too, to give 
worthy support to the action of this scene. The 
climax is intense. The dance is at its height Fe- 
dalma with tambourine raised on high, the crowd 
exultant, when the band of Gipsy prisoners with 
Zarca, their chief, pass just as the twilight bell calls 
to prayer. Zarca, 

"Who wears a solitary chain 
Heading the file, has turned to face Fedalma. 
She motionless, with arm uplifted guards 
The tambourine aloft (lest, sudden-lowered, 
Its trivial jingle mar the duteous pause). 
Reveres the general prayer, but prays not, stands 
With level glance meeting the Gipsy's eyes, 
That seem to her the sadness of the world 
Rebuking her, the great bell's hidden thought 
Now first unveiled — the sorrows unredeemed 
Of races outcast, scorned, and wandering. 
Why does he look at her? Why she at him? 
As if the meeting light between their eyes 
Made permanent union! His deep-knit brow, 
Inflated nostril, scornful lip compressed. 
Seem a dark hieroglyph of coming fate 
Written before her." 

Notice the inner force of the lines — 

"The minute brief stretched measureless, dream-filled 
By a dilated new-fraught consciousness." 

Notice, too, the mention of the Gipsy's chain, for 
in the following scene it serves as a dramatic link 
for the action of the plot. 



CRITICAL RESUME. 73 

In the next scene Silva has doffed his mail and is 
about to ask admittance to Fedalma's apartments 
when the Prior craves audience. The dialogue that 
follows boasts many forceful lines worthy of a 
dramatist. The climax of the interview is the Prior's 
announcement that Fedalma shows infidel blood, 
and as a proof, tells of her daring to follow her in- 
clinations in dancing 

" — eking out the show 
Made in the Pla^a by a mountebank." 

Quick come Don Silva 's words, 

"It is false!" 

and the Prior's calm retort, 

"Go, prove it false, then." 

The next scene shows Don Silva in the same 
room, to which he has returned after searching for 
Fedalma and finding her gone. His flood of angry 
impulse is checked by Fedalma 's entrance. How 
sweetly her first words flow, blent with self-accusa- 
tion: 

"O my lord! 
You are come back, and I was wandering!" 

Don Silva [coldly, but with suppressed agitatiorC], 
" You meant I should be ignorant." 

Fedalma. 

" Oh, no, 
I should have told you after — not before, 
Lest you should hinder me." 

Then follows the excuse — 

"I only went 
To see the world with liiez — see the town, 
The people, everything. It was no harm. 
I did not mean to dance : it happened so 
At last — " 



74 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

and Silva^s pain, sharp and quick — 

"O God, it's true then!" 

Next comes a revelation of Fedalma's character: 
the mixture of the influence of royal nurture and a 
heart savagely free, craving wild joy and love of 
mastery. Her love-making, in-fraught with South- 
ern intensity, spreads a glow over the whole scene: 

Fed ALMA. 

"I think your eyes would keep the life in me 
Though I had naught to feed on else." 

The scene is subtly planned: the trying of the 
family jewels, Fedalma's taking up the Gipsy's 
necklace found within the casket and Silva's begging 
her to put it aside, her description of her own wild 
longings for freedom and her premonitory fear, 
Silva's urging an immediate marriage for reason of 
a danger that he does not disclose, but that has the 
Spanish Inquisition in it, we can guess. Then as 
they embrace in parting comes the last outburst of 
Fedalma's fear — 

''Some chill dread possesses me!" 

and Silva's reassurance — 

"Oh, confidence has oft been evil augury, 
So dread may hold a promise." 

Fedalma's soliloquy with the necklace is a fine bit 
of poet's work. The intuition in the thought is 
strenuous, and Juan's entrance ominous. It is from 
him that Fedalma learns that the quaint necklace 
was the Gipsy chief's, and her innate superstition 
seizes the fact to read into it new meanings. 



CRITICAL RESUME. 75 

We anticipate a climax, and find it in the next 
scene. Fedalma is alone. She cannot sleep. Some 
premonition makes her restless. Then comes the 
strange messenger. A tiny bird, dead though still 
warm, falls on the floor behind her. About its neck 
is a linen strip, and written on it in blood — 

^'Dear child, Fedalma, 
Be brave, give no alarm — your father comes'* 

This is the struggle of Fedalma's life. Her father, 
the Gipsy chief Zarca, claims her for himself and for 
his people's hope that she may be their Queen: 

"Fedalma [after a moment, slowly and distinctly, as 
if accepting a dooml. 

Then 1 was born a Zlncala? 

Zarca. 

Of a blood 
Unmixed as virgin wine-juice." 

The girl's own blood, the blood of the Zincala, pleads 
as strongl}^ as Zarca, and in the end triumphs, so 
that Fedalma writes a farewell to Silva: 

"Silva, sole love — he came — my father came. 
I am the daughter of the Gipsy chief 
Who means to he the Savior of our tribe. 
He calls on me to live for his great end. 
To live ? nay, die for it. Fedalma dies 
In leaving Silva: all that lives henceforth 
Is the poor Zincala. 

"Father, now I go 
To wed my people's lot." 

Zarca 's part in this scene is masterful. His will 
is inexorable, supreme. The plan for the escape of 
the Gipsy band is complete. They have filed their 
chains, and this night with their Queen, Fedalma, 
leave the castle. 



76 THE SPAMSH GIPSY. 

The next scene gives the keynote of the theme that 
follows. Still pursuing the description, note the 
dawning of the day, as 

"beauteous Night lay dead 
Under the pall of twilight, and the love-star 
Sickened and shrank," 

and see how it serves as fit introduction for the 
whole motif of Silva's love-dream and its end. He 
is nearing the castle when Don Alvar, Silva's friend, 
brings Fedalma's farewell and the news that the 
Gipsy prisoners have escaped, Juan with them. 
Silva, vainly searching the palace for Fedalma, finds 
a glove. 

"It was Juan's glove, 
Tasseled, perfumed, embroidered with his name, 
A gift of dames. Then Juan, too, was gone? 
Full-mouthed conjecture, hurrying through the town, 
Had spread the tale already; it was he 
That helped the Gipsies' flight. He talked and sang 
Of nothing but the Gipsies and Fedalma, 
He drew the threads together, wove the plan." 

The journeying dream takes us afar and leads at 
last to the Gipsies' camp. Juan is introduced, and 
soon Fedalma appears in Moorish dress. Fedalma's 
speech is full of the recognition of fate, but full too 
of longing pain : 

"I forsook him for no joy, but sorrow, 
For sorrow chosen rather than a joy 
That destiny made base!" 

and when Juan offers to play the dangerous part of 
messenger to Silva: 

"No, Juan, no! 
Those yearning words came from a soul infirm, 
Crying and struggling at the pain of bonds 
Which yet it would not loosen." 



CRITICAL RESUME. 77 

Then again: 

"Shall I, to ease my fevered restlessness. 

Raise peevish moans ? . . . 

No! On the close-thronged spaces of the earth 

A battle rages: Fate has carried me 

'Mid the thick arrows." 

Then comes the final courage of resignation: 

"I will keep my stand — 
Nor shrink and let the shaft pass by my breast 
To pierce another. Oh, 'tis written large 
The thing I have to do." 

Juan leaves her soon, having tried to cheer her 
sadness, and Zarca appears, heralded by a joyous 
shout. 

'She saw him now advancing, girt with arms 
That seemed like idle trophies hung for show 
Beside the weight and fire of living strength 
That made his fame. 

All tenderly he laid 
His hand upon her shoulder; tenderly 
His kiss upon her brow." 

He questions his daughter, tests her, and so she 
answers him: 

"Father, my soul is weak, the mist of tears 
Still rises to my eyes, and hides the goal 
Which to your undimmed sight is fixed and clear. 
But faithfulness can feed on suffering. 
And knows no disappointment. Trust in me I 
If it were needed, this poor trembling hand 
Should grasp the torch — strive not to let it fall 
Though it were burning down close to my flesh, 
No beacon lighted yet : through the damp dark 
I should still hear the cry of gasping swimmers. 
Father, I will be true. 

" Zarca. 
** I trust that word." 

Next comes their parting and Fedalma's last words s 

"Kiss me now: 
And when you see fair hair, be pitiful." 



78 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

Then we have a pretty scene of sympathy between 
Fedalma and the Httle Hinda. Fedalma's yearning 
searches far down into the truths of nature in the 
child, and finds there blazoned, undimmed by the 
worst possible of fears, this truth — child-spoken: 

"A Zincala cannot live without her tribe." 

The child runs off. Fedalma is alone. Her long 
soliloquy ends with a premonition of Silva's presence, 
just as he does in truth appear in search of her. 
The joy of meeting is soon chilled by Fedalma 's 
fears. Silva gently rebukes: 

"Your love is faint, else aught that parted us 
Would seem but superstition. Love supreme 
Defies dream-terrors — risks avenging fires. 
I have risked all things. But your love is faint." 

Zarca appears. His speech to Fedalma is a well- 
wrought climax of irresistible appeal, which she seeks 
not to resist. Still the current of fate runs potent 
through Fedalma 's every word and motion — 

"wrought upon by awe, 
Her own brief life seeming a little isle 
Remote through visions of a wider world 
With fates close-crowded." 

. Still, in contrast, we see Silva determined to be 
master of his fate: 

"He faced her, pale with passion and a will 
Fierce to resist whatever might seem strong 
And ask him to submit : he saw one end — 
He must be conqueror; monarch of his lot 
And not its tributary." 

Finding that Fedalma is steadfast in her choice 
to live for her tribe, his love tears down all obstinacy 
of circumstance and floods over the wall rising to 
divide them. He declares that as Fedalma will not 



CRITICAL RESUME. 79 

return with him, he will not leave her, but will 
live with her as one of her tribe. It is a bold, brave 
choice. Silva is keenly aware of the meaning of his 
act, but is determined not to leave Fedalma to 
suffer alone. Zarca, after some remonstrance, shows 
Silva that his choice entails submission to his chief's 
commands, and to test him orders him to guard 
the heights until his own return to the camp. The 
tribe is seen approaching now to hear Silva 's oath 
of allegiance. 

The next scene opens with Silva 's solitary watch 
on the heights. His love has had strong test indeed, 
for after the glow of action, this loneliness gives 
terrible time for meditation. For two days he has 
kept watch 

"with the band of stalwart Gipsies," 

and has seen nothing of Fedalma since he took 
the oath of allegiance to her tribe. Alone with the 
Gipsy band, he has seen only Juan — 

"Juan who went and came 
To soothe two hearts, and claimed nought for his own: 
Friend more divine than all divinities. 
Quenching his human thirst in others' joy." 

But the third day Juan came not, 

"Now in his stead came loneliness, and thought 
Inexorable, fastening with firm chain 
What is to what hath been." 

Thought grows intense. Memories and habits of 
mind long known throng fast and press hard against 
present circumstance. 

Finally the dream of Fedalma soothes all fevered 
thought and fills his being. Then the summons 
comes to march to join Zarca 's forces. Fedalma 
and the women of the camp had already gone for- 



80 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

ward toward Almeria. Silva followed. What was 
left for him else? 

In the next scene Zarca awakens after a short 
sleep in the Moorish hall of the castle at Bedmar. 
The Gipsies had gained entrance to the town and 
let in the Moorish forces as had been planned and 
Silva's friends were slain. 

The scene then changes to the Plaga Santiago in 
Bedmdr, but this time it is thronged with Moors 
and Jews besides the other towns-people. Zarca 's 
speech to the crowd opens the scene. Zarca has 
been put in command of the town on account of his 
aid to the Moors and their Jewish allies, but he 
announces his wish not to camp on Spanish soil, but 
to retire with his tribe: 

"we seek a home 
Where we may spread and ripen like the corn 
By blessing of the sun and spacious earth." 

Nadar slips quickly through the crowd to Zarca's 
side, and whispers of Silva 's defiance of Zarca's 
order that he should remain within the castle, and 
tells of his escape. Then Silva himself appears and 
fiercely denounces Zarca for keeping him ignorant 
of the alliance with the Moors and of their intention 
to seize Bedmar. Zarca is unmoved and commands 
silence. Silva rushes on Zarca and stabs him. 
Zarca falls, calls for his daughter, and Silva is bound 
to the stake. 

"But the cry, 'She comes!' 
Parted the crowd like waters : and she came. 
Swiftly as once before, inspired with joy. 
She flashed across the space and made new light, 
Glowing upon the glow of evening, 
So swiftly now she came, inspired with woe, 
Strong with the strength of all her father's pain, 
Thrilling her as with fire of rage divine 



CRITICAL RESUME. 81 

And battling energy. She knew — saw all : 
The stake with Silva bound — her father pierced — 
To this she had been born: a second time 
Her father called her to the task of life." 

Then Fedalma speaks Zarca's last words to his 
tribe, commanding their allegiance to his daughter 
as their queen, and then Zarca himself speaks his 
final command: 

"Let loose the Spaniard! give him back his sword; 
He cannot move to any vengeance more — 
His soul is locked 'twixt two opposing crimes. 
I charge you to let him go unharmed and free 
Now through your midst." 

And Silva passed, gazing on Fedalma 's averted 
face. Soon the "loud long wail'^ of the mourning 
tribe rushes forth and the chief's body is borne 
away, followed by Fedalma, ''tearless, erect." 

The last scene shows the Gipsies' embarkation on 
Almeria's bay. They are to go to Africa. From the 
steps before her tent, Fedalma watches with anx- 
ious care the loading of the boats. 

At last Juan comes; speaks quietly; bids her mark 
"a tall and gray-clad pilgrim " who moves afar. 

The next is the parting scene. Silva is on his way 
to seek absolution at Rome. 

"I go to be absolved, to have my life 
Washed into fitness for an offering 
To injured Spain. 

Fedalma, think of me 
As one who will regain the only life 
Where he is other than apostate — one 
Who seeks but to renew and keep the vows 
Of Spanish knight and noble. But the breach 
Outside those vows — the fatal second breach — 
Lies a dark gulf where I have nought to cast, 
Not even expiation — poor pretense. 
Which changes nought but what survives the past, 
And raises not the dead. That deep, dark gulf 
Divides us. 



82 THE SPANISH GIPSY. 

" Fbdalma. 

* Yes, forever. We must walk 
Apart unto the end. Our marriage rite 
Is our resolve that we will each be true 
To high allegiance, higher than our love. 
Our dear young love — its breath was happiness! 
But it had grown upon a larger life 
Which tore its roots asunder. We rebelled — 
The larger life subdued us. Yet we are wed; 
For we shall carry each the pressure deep 
Of the other's soul. I soon shall leave the shore. 
The winds to-night will bear me far away. 
My lord, farewell!" 

Note the large peace in the description of the 
night, then the human woe at the end in the strain- 
ing gaze. 

"It was night 
Before the ships weighed anchor and gave sail; 
Fresh Night emergent in her clearness, lit 
By the large crescent moon, with Hesperus, 
And those great stars that lead the eager host. 
Fedalma stood and watched the little bark 
Lying jet-black upon moon-whitened waves. 
Silva was standing too. He too divined 
A steadfast form that held him with its thought, 
And eyes that sought him vanishing: he saw 
The waters widen slowly, till at last 
Straining he gazed, and knew not if he gazed 
On aught but blackness overhung by stars." 




SEP 12 ^^^ 



B7^ 

5tV 



'£ai 



^ W •» W W w 



PANTOMIME 

U/>e SPANISH 
GIPSY 

Eleven Large Illustrations 
Photographed from Life 

Printed on Bnameled Paper 

POEM BY GEORGE: ELIOT 



Poses under Direction of and 
Lesson-Talk by 

ANNA D. COOPER 



Price 35 Cents 
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